dumb bird flies first

there's a Chinese idiom, 笨鸟先飞. To those who it haunts.. this is for you.

We don’t know why the bird is dumb. Maybe its wings are droopier, maybe it is mentally impaired, maybe the other birds bullied it so hard that it can’t fly right anymore. We can’t diagnose why it is so hard for it to do something basic that it was born to do: exist as a member of the bird populace. 

Maybe it’s also politically incorrect to call the bird “dumb.” The bird isn’t necessarily intellectually incapable, or socially awkward. The bird is simply inadequate, in some capacity, perhaps specifically “clumsiness.” But we are limited by language here, so we call it such. Dumb is equivalent to “silence” as a definition; the problem is that silence isn’t usually as loud when it comes to being productive. But the incompetencies of this bird are loud. They ring to others. I feel them resound in my ears, torturing me at night.  

All we can say is, this bird is the kind of bird that doesn’t know how to keep up with the flock. When we fly in V-formation, this bird hangs back, loosely, and it’s careful to keep up its pacing so it can match the stamina of everyone else. But try as it might, it still isn’t good enough. It just falls the hell behind! So fast! The currents just take it away. The bird cries and tries to keep up. The elements don’t listen.

The poor dumb bird is actually very bad at strategizing, and this is an almost-fatal mistake. The standard it’s graded on is not met. The bird is at risk of getting cut from the populace all the time. For if you don’t know how to fly in V-formation, how to progress down the line, how can you do things? 

It doesn’t matter what the bird is or isn’t in that moment. Having a kind heart and spirit matters less when you have to do stuff. It matters instead what his productivity is. It matters more that it is bad at the job it was given: to fly south for the winter with the rest of the flock, making sure that it does its part to keep up the momentum. If we have proof of this, we’re doing the dumb bird a generosity by letting him keep his position in the pecking order. But we don’t have the modernity of cars here! We have a place to get, and can only use birdpower here to get there. We gotta fly to our destination. Dumb bird, we can’t afford for you to hold us back.

Why is this world measured by competency? It’s oh so tragic that this bird is ranked in relativity to its peers. Why must this be the case? Why can’t it be enough that I love this bird, that I believe in it, but I am afraid of being wrong because the one who will pay the price is the bird?

The bird doesn’t know who to blame, so it blames itself. It weeps when no one is looking. It works hard at the wrong things. It wails that it doesn’t know what to do. I hear its cries. I don’t know what to do except try to help. My help makes the situation worse.

Calling it dumb actually breaks my heart. I don’t want to do that! Please understand, bird, that I am not the one who wanted to call you this. It’s not my fault this is a Chinese idiom that was passed on to me. I thought by turning this into language, proudly naming the phenomenon — that you must fly first, that you must work harder than others to make up for your inadequacies — you would be blessed, and even inspired to work on the things you must to be good enough for the rest of the world.

But I’m afraid you both inherited my fear of the world and your fear of yourself. I see your fear twist to self-hate, and I see my fear twist to self-hate. I cry often about how you’re such a dumb bird, not meaning to define you by that, but because my heart breaks when the other birds bully you, when you try to fly first, and you can’t seem to do it. Oh dumb bird, I don’t know who to curse first. Myself, or you.

I feel bad. I wish you weren’t iron. You have redeeming qualities, I’m sure. But we need you to be steel right now: sturdy, ever-changing, reliable. You might not have what it takes. O dumb bird, I wish I could help you. 

This is an oppressive role I must take, to be the arbiter of your qualifications.

****

In the original idiom 笨鸟先飞, the main character actually compensates for his weaknesses by working harder than the rest. Eventually he qualifies, despite being bullied.

Don’t give in to American exceptionalism, the Chinese immigrant bird parents cry. You don’t deserve anything handed to you. You have to work hard!

But you also gotta work smart. You gotta apply your hard work and humility — what the bird parents want you to remember — in the ways that matter.

It’s funny to realize that, perhaps the people telling you about the idiom 笨鸟先飞 forget that it illustrates an inevitability — that as long as you work hard, you’ll be fine.

The fatalistic fear that this doesn’t work is really what brings the bird down. It’s having the humility to work hard, but not the arrogance to assume you’re special for it not working.

Lesson: rearrange your ideas of dumb.

*****

You grow up. The dumb bird is not dumb now. In fact, you’re leader of a different flock. Your flock doesn’t fly south in the winter; they take little rocks and build a fortress to oppress the wind. They don’t follow the flow of the wind; they instead, battle it in innovative different ways. 

She watches from afar. She does not know how to say congratulations. Part of herr pride is attached to the pain of trying to teach the dumb bird to fly early, fly first. Part of her wants to not look at the world, more beautiful and bright in the glistening snow, from the perspective of the rock shelter. She’s still scared to be wrong. She’s still scared to let go of control and let the world take control, potentially ruining your poor bird’s psyche.

But she hears instead, that her feedback about the bird’s incompetencies were like knives inside the bird growing up. The bird hated being mothered by her. The bird didn’t want reminders daily of its inadequacies, it argued. The bird flew slower and slower as it was weighed down by the worry, the burden that it was a bad bird to those who loved it too, that its incompetencies were holding everyone back. 

The bird stopped flying, gave up on the race. The worry that she’d fussed over it with, the weapon of the smothering of trying to protect the bird, was something it let go of. The bird surrendered to playing a different game. 

And the bird learned, after it was done with the game, that it has to forgive. The bird learns that there was a curse to being perceptive, and that’s what Mother told you. Mother wanted to claw out her own eyes at seeing your flaws, not because she wanted to judge you, but because the judgment came from fear of how the world would alter you. How the world had altered Mother’s family.

But just like smartness is complex, so is dumbness. 

They are not uniform. Shortcomings are a gateway to magical thinking. But the problem is that, if one is a Chinese immigrant, one does not get how to think magically. One is too busy being confused by the miracle that brought one to the States unscathed. One does not have the space to parent someone who grows up to be called “exceptional” by their peers, but who has no clue how to believe it.

The problem is that to be creative, to be a master of innovation, one must be delusional. A delusion that Mother didn’t understand. 

The optimal amount of suffering isn’t 0, and this goes for both humans and birds, the bird tries to tell her now. Suffering for the right things was worth it. Suffering as someone behind everyone else was worth it. Also, there isn’t one destination. There are multiple. 

The bird’s journey now is to fly south, but it has decided it will do it alone. It can’t do it the way everyone else is, because the collaborative spirit is changing in how V-formations are done. The bird wants to go and find a different way, a way that will scare everyone, and still does.

The point is to do it so it was worth it to grow up “dumb.”

The tragedy of being the dumb bird is that fortune belongs to those who are the stupidest, the most foolish, but they don’t tell you that. You could be sitting on buried treasure, and you’ll be told you’re cursed to hell.

To hell you go then. You go clumsily, scarily, eagerly, away from everyone else. You should strive to be dumb actually, bird! Be that bird, who shall be a willing fool.